


The Brain Blog of John Watson

by searchingforlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Domestic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, John Watson Being an Idiot, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Smut, Yelling in a Tesco, making tea, soft bois
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14187312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforlight/pseuds/searchingforlight
Summary: An entire work centered around the thoughts of John Watson in his moments of domesticity, or otherwise, with his one and only Sherlock Holmes. Expect fluff, mild angst, a slightly irritated John Watson, and much more.





	1. Good Morning, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write John Watson's thoughts when he's with Sherlock. While I enjoy Sherlock's brain, exploring a soft or even irritated John gives me such joy. I hope you enjoy what I think goes through his mind and how he pictures Sherlock in different settings. 
> 
> Also, major kudos to @elldotsee and @ Thornypeach for encouraging me to write and being the best betas I could have asked for.

The sun shines through the window on this brisk morning. I slowly open my tired eyes, squinting into the rays of light greeting the immaculate room I notice myself in. The shadows of the previous evening dissipate, taking with them the memories spent wrapped in one another’s arms. Momentarily blinded, I inquire my surroundings, feeling around for what I need most. My palms skim over the high thread count of the sheets that enveloped our bodies the night before tumbling into the softness of your tangled hair. Tenderly I sweep over top those tousled curls, twirling them attractively about my calloused fingertips. Pausing momentarily, I listen to soft susurrations gently escaping your slightly parted lips, emitting shivers down my spine. These same lips I desire to claim for my own taking. For they are mine and mine alone.

These small moments of you being unaware of my soft gaze ground me when you're physically departed from the space I normally share with you.

My eyes, fully open now, glissade down your body. The sheet is draped lazily along your side, exposing favorites parts of you to me. Alabaster skin you’re apprehensive to present during the day, cloaked away underneath layers of unconscious distrust of the surroundings of the world; however equally ardent to reveal yourself solely to me in the radiant moonbeams of our hidden mainstay. I pull my hands away from your curls, more a mess than when I found them, gently skating your skin. Allowing the softness to slowly wake you from your sleep. Selfish of me, I know, rousing you when you’re peacefully displayed in front of me, but the desire to gaze longingly into your eyes when you’ve turned to face me overpowers your necessity to slumber. My heart races as I’ve predicted. Your sleepy eyes gaze longingly at me as if it were the first time you’ve laid your sights on me; similar to that of our first meeting back in that sterile room at Bart’s. Wrinkled nose accompanied by a tired half smile.

I whisper a soothing ‘Good morning’, lips meeting your youthful forehead.

I place my hand on your chest securing your positioning on the bed. I want to keep you here like this forever, taking each part of you in. The small crinkled imprints of the pillowcase on your cheek. You’re looking a bit disheveled from turning about in the middle of the night desperate to discover the infallible spot that steals away from consciousness into a deep slumber. It is endearing how even in your sleep your mind deduces the right position to sink into. Each night holds a difference, and how I live for the moments I wake before you. Seeing how your body contours in the most perfect of ways.

‘What are you looking at?’

Just you.  
Always you.  
Forever you.

‘Nothing. Just thinking about how I don’t want to get out of bed to get us a cuppa this morning. I might get them ready and come back to bed since it is a bit chilly out this morning. Thank god the bedroom is close to the kitchen.’

Slowly tracing my upturned finger along your sharp jawline, I nudge your chin upwards, exposing the blank canvas of your neck. I hear a slight hushed moan as my lips make contact scattering a constellation of kisses along the base of your throat. Before I am able to continue painting a masterpiece on your skin, you force yourself downward. Noses grazing one another. Eyes locked. Breathing each other in. It could be my last breath, and I would always use it on you. I claim your trembling lips with mine coming undone as you part them, giving me access. Your taste never wavers. My chest hitches as you dominate our dance pushing yourself forward crowding my sense. Our rhythm is tender, sure, and unabashed. How long we are captured in this intimate moment I know not, and I care not.

You leave me breathless and yearning for more.

‘You’re the epitome of domesticity, John. Let me try for once. Can't risk my doctor catching a cold because he seems to always forget his house slippers when getting out of bed to make a cuppa. Enjoy your moment in bed alone because when I get back, I would like to continue this lazy kissing with you. I’m growing quite fond of you, you know that?’

You give me that mischievous wink that you’ve spent weeks trying to perfect, secretly, in the mirror when you believe I’m not watching. I like this one you have gifted me. You must have deduced that this is my favorite since you’ve stuck with it for around a week now. You rarely make us a cuppa, and I greedily want to watch your long graceful body clamber out of bed.

Slender.  
Sleek.  
Unblemished.

Shame you have on your pyjamas. I’m rather fond of your vulnerability in the mornings. It’s intimate the way you share parts of yourself with me, unbeknownst to you or not. Moments with you set in this stage are blissful, and I hope to have an eternity of them with you.


	2. Least Favorite Tesco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weekly trip to Tesco leads to a bit of a domestic, and two idiot men making up in the kitchen before tea.

I tug the collar of my coat up to avoid the muggy London air. It’s just another Tesco Tuesday except for the first time in two months Sherlock has decided to grace me with his presence while we shop. How I was able to pull him from this latest experiment - John, trust me when I tell you that the UV-Vis spectrophotometer is quite a simple machine, and that we do need one in our flat. It won’t take up that much room! - is beyond me. The last time I looked at him funny while he was in his studious nature, he threw me out of the flat with a huff, briskly telling me 'go grab a pint with Graham or Molly' and leave him be. To his dismay I had been out all night at the pub watching the game and didn’t get back in until well after two in the morning. Someone at 221B was a bit upset with the fact that their dinner hadn’t been made that night, and it sure wasn’t Mrs. Hudson. Ha. Served him right for kicking me out of our flat and having so many expectations. 

After adjusting my collar, I notice out the of the corner of my eye Sherlock’s hand is dangling just so almost brushing my thigh. Odd he never does … oh! Immediately I remove my hand from my pocket and intertwine my fingers with his. 

Perfection. It’s as if our hands were designed to interlace as they do every single day. I sigh at this revelation and squeeze his hand a bit tighter than usual. Sherlock looks up from his phone and shines his infamous half smile towards me. I’ve forgotten that I’m perturbed at him. I promptly replace my dreamy stare with that of a contentious huffed scowl. His damn cheek bones. Those looks of his be the death of my temper. Calming the storm that rages inside of me whenever he does something ridiculous, albeit brilliant. My breath hitches and I steal a glance at my love, hoping I haven’t hurt his pride too much. 

The short journey to Tesco has been dull, and the atmosphere inside of the store is quite the same. I grab the shopping basket as I only need to grab a few things for the week, and look around for Sherlock. Dammit. Where has he gone off to now?! My chest swells with irritation as I scan the aisles for the tall man I somehow have decided to claim as my own. Why oh why did I decide to call him mine? I abandon my search for Sherlock and go about shopping. This is my normal routine as of late. Doing the shopping on my own. Being domestic. Good god Sherlock does nothing but irritate the shite out of me, eats all the food in the flat, and has the audacity to never thank me for making tea every single day. The hot air in my lungs, once trapped, is slowly escaping and I can feel it make its way up my neck and out through my nose. I feel like a Spanish bull eyeing the only target it has been trained to attack. I use a breathing technique my therapist has prescribed me. Seven counts in. Five counts out. Eight counts in. Release. There, I feel better already. 

Completely forgetting about Sherlock and minding the handwritten shopping list clasped in my hand, pen in the other, my eyes gaze down to the last item: blackberry jam. Of course. Sherlock’s favorite. Why I bother buying this for him … I stop myself and chuckle. Shaking my head, I remember all the mornings his curly mop had abruptly lifted from the pillow, his lean statured body stumbling out of bed after three or so hours of sleep, mumbling strange and incoherent thoughts apparently I’m supposed to understand. Those are the mornings he hungrily swallows each and every last bit of toast and eggs I’ve prepared for him, licking the sweet jam from his fingers with a small pop. I clear my throat, bringing my stream of consciousness back to the present. The aisle is empty, and I quickly adjust my trousers before anyone happens upon me in my aroused state. Noting that I clearly have been in the wrong place for blackberry jam, I look through the shelves and see a familiar looming shadow in the aisle next to mine. Putting together which shelf Sherlock is standing next to and the last item on my list, I race over trying to put a stop to his actions. He had barely taken the jar off of the top shelf when I began to shout at him. 

'Dammit, Sherlock! I can do things by myself you know. It’s not like you’re coming to Tesco like we prearranged when we first got together.' I drop the basket to the floor, throwing my hands up with a temper I’ve not felt in ages. My eyebrows shoot up and my shoulders tense as a shiver runs up my spine. With each word my voice gets louder until I can feel the words vibrating off of the shelves around us. 'I’ve been reaching for this same type of jam for the last two months now all by myself. ‘Oh look at me! I’m Sherlock Holmes. All tall, dark, and handsome. I can grab the ritual spread from the tip top of the shelf without even breaking a sweat.’' 

Quite out of character, Sherlock, startled at the resonance in my voice, releases the glass jar from his slender fingers. Neither of us are able to reach for it in time before it hits the ground with a smash. He’s looking at me now. Eyebrows furrowed. Ahh not this time you don’t Sherlock Holmes. I will not let you deduce what is wrong with me right now. You didn't figure it out before we left the flat, you don’t get to know now. 

Pivoting on my heel, I snatch the basket and head toward the checkout. 'Looks like we’ll be without any jam for tea this week!' I shout over my shoulder, unable to look back at him standing there all alone to clean up the mess he’s made. Those puppy dog eyes of his would have me back to him in an instant, apologizing for my tone and snogging him thoroughly right there, making a scene at our favorite Tesco. No, no. I press onward towards the machine, scanning each of the items - not the blackberry jam as it was the last jar that smashed to the ground in my fit. I scramble for my trifold, flustered with myself and that damned temper of mine. Seven counts in. Five counts out. Eight counts in. Release. I’m able to pull the card from its place, slide it into the machine, and punch in my pin - 7437. Hurriedly, I grab my receipt along with my items, because damn me if I forget the shopping for the week, and make my way back to Baker Street. 

I’m briskly walking back to my flat, but my short legs can only take me so fast. The thoughts swirling in my head overcome me, and I have to rest on a nearby bench. Have I eaten today? Is that why I’m nauseous or is it because I basically had a one sided domestic with Sherlock in the middle of Tesco over blackberry jam? My cold fingers run through my hair as I quiet an unexpected sob trying to escape my throat. Of course. Dinner at Angelo’s this past Thursday. That was the night we were to celebrate one of my published works. A case we worked on at that. Tears start to trickle down my cheeks. I was left there at Angelo’s all by myself, drawing unnecessary attention from Angelo walking by patting me on the back saying ‘He’ll show up. I just know it.’ By the end of the evening, my entire meal had been comped, and I traipsed back to our shared flat to find Sherlock passed out on the couch. I had been so embarrassed and hurt, that I completely blocked the fresh memory out, unwilling to bring it up to Sherlock and have a row with him over it. 

I know he doesn’t really understand me and my unspoken needs, but dammit, sometimes it would be nice to have a Sherlock who doesn’t prioritize experiments with ink over me and my achievements. I rub the chilled tears stuck to my cheeks off, casting them to the side - not unlike my own goals -, and push my unwilling body up and off the bench. Time to finish the trip to a most likely empty flat, make tea for one per the as-of-late norm, and work on the next bit my publisher wants me finish just in case my first published work sells out like we hope. Rain starts to saturate the hem of my trousers, causing my socks to soak and shoes to fill up. I quicken my pace and before the rain has a chance to chill me to the bone, I make it to the flat. Fumbling with the keys with my frozen fingers, I manage to get inside and allow the warmth of the hallway to wash over me. A smell wafting from upstairs is unusually pleasant, and I’m terrified to find out what it could possibly be. 

‘Oh so you finally decided to come home. How very nice of you. Did you soak yourself to the bone in the rain outside, John?’

His soft voice carries from the kitchen as I’m taking my shoes and socks off, tossing them in a heap on the floor to be dealt with later. I must not give in to his melodious voice. The tone is a bit more playful than normal, and I refuse to allow this method of skirting bad behavior to continue. Coat off and barefoot, I stomp to the kitchen, pausing abruptly to see that our tea has been set on the table, fresh and warm toast with … blackberry jam. 

‘John, before you get upset … I must have you know, after your temper tantrum I had to venture to my least favorite Tesco to get this damn jam you had me break whilst bellowing about your inept stature at our favorite Tesco. I’m sure they’re never going to let us back in with the scene you pulled today …’

I drop the bags in arms, angrily stride over to Sherlock, and push my finger directly into his chest. My eyes are wide and full of contempt for his pompous face and sharp cheekbones. I ignore the way his lips pout and stare deep into his eyes. No changes in his face have been made, and it looks like we’ll be having that domestic he claims I started while at Tesco. 

'You listen here, Sherlock Holmes. You might be the world’s one and only consulting detective, but you’re a right arsed boyfriend.' I can feel the temperature in the flat rise, and breathing techniques be damned. I want to be angry. Heat rises and oh boy, is he in for it now. 'You forget dinner with me last Thursday over my publication. A work I’ve been finishing for months now. You know? The ones about your cases?! Or did you happen to just not care about that over the ‘categorization of color and composition of pen inks and inked writing found on a variety of documents’ or whatever such experiments you’ve been dawdling on about lately?' 

I can see Sherlock’s smug face wiped right clean off, eyes widening, and finally clicking the pieces together. His shoulders are heavy and leaning forward. A small whisper escapes his lips. ‘A bit not good?’

'A BIT NOT GOOD?! IS THAT WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY? DO YOU JUST NOT UNDERSTAND THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD WHO HAS GOALS!?' The words erupt from deep inside of me as if I was a once dormant volcano ready to lay waste to the unexpecting village below me. 'DO YOU SUPPOSE MAKING TEA AND GOING TO YOUR LEAST FAVORITE TESCO IS GOING TO MAKE UP FOR IT?? HMM??' 

I take a step back, realizing that I have Sherlock backed up against the counter, a slight embarrassed pink color creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. I chasten myself. Of course he does, and for Sherlock, this is a big deal. Surveying the room around me, I can see that everything is in place just the way I like it. My newspaper folded next to the plate with two lightly buttered toasts and my tea, no sugar but a splash of milk, in my favorite coordinating mug slightly near Sherlock’s place setting. Not a hair out of place. 

My heart drops as I glance at my chair. A note with a carefully scripted 'My Darling John' on the front has been placed on my seat. If Sherlock has composed an apology, it can only mean he genuinely knows that he’s done something wrong. The man, as logical as he is, can bring me to tears with how beautifully his emotions are transpired onto the page and flow deeply into my soul. 

‘John.’ 

My head swivels round breaking the eye contact with the possible apology letter, and I come nose to nose with Sherlock. 

‘I may not be the best boyfriend, and I know I get caught up in my experiments, forgetting entirely the date and time for important events, but I truly thought tonight was our planned dinner to celebrate your achievements.’ He takes his hands and places them on either side of my cheeks, thumbs generously tracing my jawline, causing my legs to give just a tad at the pads of his fingers on my soft skin. Beholding my eyes, searching for the right moment, Sherlock claims my lips with his. Gentle. Strong. Content. My Sherlock. His tongue begins to beg for entrance, but hastily retreats understanding this tender moment should not be disturbed by the arousals both of us can feel pressing against one another’s thighs. 

He pulls back, and I confidently lick my lips, knowing that once I give the command he’ll be the one weak in the knees.

'Excuse me, Sherlock, but do you think you’re the right person to be making tea? I hope this isn’t as good as my cuppa, or else I’ll be out of a job. What’s next?' I push my chest against his, trailing my breath up his neck, and placing my lips just underneath his earlobe. Fervently I trace my tongue in a circular motion that I know will elicit the right kind of sounds demanding liberation from his mouth. Releasing my mouth from his neck, I whisper on to his skin, 'Will you be better at sucking cock than I am? Sherlock Holmes, World’s One and Only Best Cock Sucker.' I can feel his smile widen and a forceful deep-bellied laugh vibrates the space around us. 

‘Is that a challenge, Dr. Watson?’

‘No, Private, that’s an order. Drop and give me -’

I cannot finish my sentence before my trousers are unbuttoned and round my ankles at record speed. His hands glide down my body, undoing each of the fastenings of my shirt, popping a few of them off in his haste to have me bare chested. He flips me around so my back is flush with the counter behind me. I gasp at the cool touch of the back of his hands descending down to my navel, teasing the waistband of my pants. He gently kneels down, pressing his lips against my protruding hip bone and again on the other side. Pulling at the waistband again, but this time with his teeth, he slides my pants down to accompany my trousers, and places firm kisses along my legs, up one and down the other, completely bypassing my erect cock. 

'You’re a damn tease, Sherlock Holmes.' I mutter wanting to pull his curls into my hands and push him where he knows he needs to focus and pay attention. 

‘Just the way you like it, John Watson.’ 

My back arches, fingers lightly pull on Sherlock’s curls as his mouth takes me in. His hand pushes my hips against the countertop, giving him the push he needs to keep me still. While we both know Sherlock craves that demanding nature from me, he lives for the thrill of being the one in charge, putting his well developed skills to fruition. The slight bob of his head hardens me even further. I groan and grip the sides of the counter, knuckles white, and my bottom lip encased between my teeth. The sensation of Sherlock’s mouth wrapped around me sends my toes curling. I can hear my cock slide in and out of his mouth at a faster pace; he’s found his rhythm, and I don’t have much longer. His free hand goes underneath and firmly grabs my arse, releases and begins pulling his fingers along until he reaches my shaft. Combining his hand with his mouth, I can barely think, let alone breathe. Sensing my completion, Sherlock speeds up, twisting his hand along my wet cock, pulling his mouth to the tip. 

'Sher-Sher-Sherlock!' I cry out with my release. He continues to stroke my cock as I shudder and try to regain my breath. 'Okay. Okay! I get it, I get it! Apology accepted.' 

Sherlock grabs a napkin from the table and wipes his mouth. ‘Bit salty there, now were you, John?’ 

'Oh bugger off you prat.' I go to lift my pants and trousers back up, but he stops me, pulling me down to sit by him. I lie my head on his chest as he strokes his hand through my hair. Kissing me softly atop my head, Sherlock mumbles ‘Are we okay? Am I not a shite boyfriend then?’ 

'We’re more than okay, Sherlock. I just … overreacted.' I grab his unoccupied hand and interlace it with mine, brushing my lips on top of his knuckles. 

‘Over blackberry jam, nonetheless.’

'Right, over blackberry jam.' I close my eyes knowing this won’t be the last apology Sherlock will make.


End file.
